Chapter Text
A cloaked figure stood in the dark room dimly illuminated by flickering computer screens and sparkling wires.
It snapped Its fingers, and another figure slowly came into existence: the blown ribcage fused back together trapping the assembling mediastinum inside itself, pink intestines neatly packing in the gaping abdominal cavity, bone marrow stacking back inside of diaphyses before closing up.
The Maker’s gloved hands lowered, and part-by-part, as if It was commanding each muscle required for the task separately, the god turned to face a shell-shocked scientist covered head-to-toe in blood that belonged not only to him, but also to the scattered remains of the S-3LF research team all around.
‘You almost succeeded in modifying my sibling’s vital structure. I am impressed,’ It says, an emotionless hard to describe murmur that rings directly inside the researcher’s head, one that the human might have called an inner voice once.
The steady, unforgiving glow of Maker’s missing face irritates the researcher’s optic nerves with its cold intensity, almost forcefully pulling him back to reality. He startles, unnerved by the endless cold of the universe itself staring right at him.
“W-what...” the scientist looks around in panic, hand flying to his chest and pressing hard against the ribcage, nails digging into the skin upon feeling his own heartbeat. He backs away from the strange figure, legs catching on something, causing him to fall.
Despite never meeting the entity before, the scientist knows that god is standing before him. The Maker doesn’t move an itch, staying as perfectly still as when It stopped turning. Not even an inch of chest rising to breath, not a single wrinkle changed on Its pristine clean, mockingly professional clothes.
‘The Machine doesn’t like unauthorized processes rummaging around in Its firmware. My sibling reacted accordingly, force stopping the processes before you could damage It.’
“P-processes?”
‘Your crew.’
“My cr—,” the scientist’s gaze darts to the floor, finally registering incomprehensible piles of human tissue scattered all around the room, eyes widening as the sentence dies in his throat. Dangerously wobbly, the mortal croaks out an unintelligible guttural noise instead.
The room is deadly still, the only thing separating it from an artistic installation being the horrified sobs of the human bent over in agony.
“Why am i—I,” the mortal’s voice breaks, forcing him to take another breath, yet the Maker doesn’t move at all, listening. “W-w-why am I alive then?”
Mechanically, lifelessly, as if strings were attached to Its limbs, the Maker subtly shifts, hands folding together. It doesn't seem real, none of Its actions do, an intricate puppetry to trick the mortal subconscious that It's capable of emotion.
‘I did not expect mortals to learn this much of our existence, yet you learned enough not only to come to this information, but also to try controlling us. People like you will come to the same conclusions as you did over and over again. You will live to prevent that. Stop this research.”
“The universe has other plans for you, David Mitchell.’
***
The Annex Building was somewhat of a miracle in Nevada Central — it's not every day an old, dilapidated factory transforms into one of most reliable mercenary guilds that ever existed in Nevada in a span of a year.
And it wasn’t just the rapidly fast development that made the Annex so popular.
What really made them stand out from the sea of similar gangs in the city was the sheer grandiosity of their endeavors.
Jumping from a bank robbery to raid a nearby Agency outpost was just a simple routine for the members, not to mention stopping right in the middle of a wasteland tribe for lunch and gas of all things before heading to a season finale of an underground manslaughter show.
With such effective results, it’s no wonder that a certain chunk of the population was eager to partner with Annex as fast as possible.
But the business has been slow lately. Gone were the absurdly successful raids on Nexus facilities and Agency’s railroads, failures turning away drug lords and black market dealers looking for an opportunity to get richer. The invitation to the upcoming reboot of Slaughter Time was declined, much to the disappointment of devoted fans.
Once proud enough to not mix with the rest of the criminal world of Nevada Central, the Annex guild lowered themselves to small racketing and insignificant bounties, becoming strangely secretive and closed off, with lots of former mercenaries leaving for other guilds and gangs.
Surely they couldn’t have been that affected by the untimely passing of their leader.
***
What is the purpose of a bullet case after the shot has been fired?
Precisely two years and five minutes ago he watched the red dot tracking a particular person in the middle of Nevada's wasteland blink twice before completely disappearing in a matter of mere seconds.
Two years and five minutes ago the Machine was successfully anchored to the world to forever change it. As it turned out, for the worst.
Two years and five minutes since the Status Quo operation should have been shut down entirely.
As Annex was getting more and more expensive to upkeep, the current headquarters of S.Q. have been recently moved into the real founder’s flat.
If one would dare call a rundown studio “headquarters”.
Doc rose from the kitchen table hurrying to turn off the dangerously wobbling kettle on the stove, and as if in protest the thing let out a raspy choked whistle when he picked it up.
Scouting the messy table, he snatched two clean mugs and poured the kettle’s insides into them, frowning when a goop of something pitch black and slimy plopped in the second cup. Perhaps he should stop making instant coffee right inside the kettle one day.
Beside him, S.Q.’s bossman wordlessly pushed away some of the notes off the table to make some space for the scientist. The bearded man stared at the result of a rather sorry attempt of David’s coffee making skill, but didn't pick the cup up.
More caffeine for the scientist, then.
Both men stayed completely silent, staring unblinking at the comm for nearly an hour now, seconds stretching into infinity as they waited for the retrieval team’s report.
Two hours ago, a massacre occurred in one of Nevada Central’s underground clubs.
A small event most people wouldn’t think twice about with the sheer amount of crimes committed across Nevada lately, even if it had the infamous Hank J. Wimbleton as the main offender.
Only the Agency cared enough to be interested in everything that ever involved the elusive serial killer, so David didn’t pay much attention to agents dispatching a team to investigate.
But then N51 of all factions had also sent their troops into the club shortly after agents reacted. That was suspicious.
N51 never poked their noses out unless it wasn't something inherently vital to Nevada.
Something that happened in the club was interesting enough for them to show up after two years of radio silence.
Yet they both jumped at the quiet ping when the comm turned on.
“Uh, Doc? Bit of a problem here.”
Their usually cheery pilot sounds unusually concerned, his voice a whisper. Well, as much of a whisper Chopper Dave can manage, anyway.
“Elaborate,” the scientist’s gaze darts towards the Agency and N51’s work chats listed on the screen in front of him, checking for status updates.
Radio silence.
Dave quietly hummed.
“You see, there's a funny thing: the club's completely empty.”
A short pause.
“False alert then?”
“Oh no-no-no, not like that,” Dave’s voice overlapped with a loud door creak, footsteps echoing in the air. "It's just... Strange. No bodies, no weapons, only lots of blood everywhere and that's it. Someone’s cleared it out before us.”
…What.
“See any clues there?” Bossman chimed in, brows furrowed as he also spares a glance towards the hacked enemy communication.
“Not a lot, to be honest with you. Blood trails lead all the way from the dance floor into the parking lot, then stop.”
Doc took a gulp of his coffee flavoured water, frowning at the situation. “They had vehicles, then.”
“Now here's another weird part,” Dave snapped his fingers. “The roads were empty on the way here, I wouldn't have missed convoys.”
“...Well,” Doc hums, not entirely buying the story. “Ask your copilots as well if they saw anyone on the road.”
“They would have said something immediately then,” said Dave and added after a second of thinking, sounding immensely offended. “Wait a minute, shouldn't you trust my vision more? I'm the team’s leader.”
“You do tend to have visual hallucinations when you're drunk,” Doc quietly mutters more to himself, but receives an appalled gasp that the other person heard him anyway.
“Hey, I do not drink on missions!”
“That time you almost crashed into a gas station in a middle of a wasteland, no less—”
“It was an honest mistake,” Dave sniffs theatrically. “And besides, after Negan asked me to quit, I cut down significantly and—”
Oh well, that's going nowhere. Doc turned his head to the bearded man beside him, covering the microphone for a second.
“Any news from N51?”
Bossman peered into the faction’s hacked chat and waved his hand, unsure.
“Their first team is approaching the club in five minutes,” he stared at the scientist, somewhat confused. “Do you think they’re behind this?”
Sighing, Doc checked the A.A.H.W.’s chat logs that were suspiciously devoid of any activity. He shrugged.
The Agency was almost religiously obsessed with catching Hank J. Wimbleton, sending at least three or four teams at the same time and requiring constant situation updates in a very real case they might require more backups.
The fact that the last message sent was an hour ago was really suspicious. The Agency never took that long at getting to the serial killer’s recently documented location.
Well, usually never took that long.
“Stall N51 for a bit, no need for pointlessly risking our troops for a trap,” said Doc, prompting the other man to start typing commands. The scientist groaned, turning on the microphone again and interrupting the still rambling pilot who didn't even notice Doc’s absence.
“Abort the mission immediately. Mind N51’s helicopter from the south on your way back.”
Dave very audibly bit his own tongue in surprise upon being cut off. “...Got it.”
The comm went silent — their pilot was capable of collecting himself in moments of need, probably barking orders to collect their team and leave the empty club at the very moment.
“So…”
He felt Bossman’s questioning stare without needing to turn to face the bearded man. Slumping in his chair, the scientist groaned, gesturing to his colleague.
“It has to be a decoy,” he said. “The Agency had known way before everyone else, and I suspect whatever happened was so important they didn't dare announce the things in the common agent chats. They cleared everything themselves.”
Bossman shrugged, fixing his glasses and chuckled in disbelief. “Seems that even the Agency is capable of being discreet once in a while. Well, shit.”
“Yeah,” Doc nodded. “Shit.”
They both sat in silence for a moment, then the scientist sipped his cold coffee and loudly sighed again.
“Fuck, Jerry,” Doc hissed, fingers brushing through his mohawk, tangling in grey-streaked hair. “We were finally getting something interesting for the first time in what, six months? More? And the fucking A.A.H.W. outsmarts us. A.A.H.W.”
The other man rubs his beard, leaning back on the plastic chair. He hums in thought, gaze wandering around the room as he thought his answer.
“You know, assassinations never go out of business,” Jerry was studying the broken floor tiles underneath their table with a deliberately neutral expression. Doc himself wasn’t particularly bothered that the apartment his job provided was in dire need of cosmetic renovation as long as all the appliances worked and the windows closed without forming drafts, but the occasional visitors still looked somewhat green upon stepping inside.
“I’d say it’s better to focus on that, leave that supernatural stuff to other factions.”
Doc scoffs. “On the contrary, ‘supernatural stuff’ is what Status Quo was created for, it is our main goal to monitor all the suspicious events that take place. Assassinations should not be a higher priority than getting cash.”
Jerry sighed, pulling his fraying beanie off and twirling it in hands, fingers gently brushing over the faded red “NC” embroidered on the front. For some sentimental reason, the bearded man never got rid of the old knit, no matter how many times Bert, Dave and literally everyone else at Annex told him to just buy a new one already.
“You said it yourself before that Status Quo cannot function without Negan, their presence is what made all we did before even possible. Do you really think we can be as effective in universe meddling as an actual Generation 01 specifically appointed to do just that?”
“Well...,” the scientist sinks a little further into his chair, grimacing. “Technically you’re correct. However I am positive we can continue with the information acquired from Negan and my own studies.”
That sounded way more unsure than he intended.
“Or...,” Jerry put his beanie back on his head, sighing deeply. “You and I don’t risk our chances for a good, stable life. Sure, I can handle returning to the old streets, but Annex houses quite a number of people I don’t wish to impose that sort of life on. Let’s not chase after what we cannot handle.”
“You are not old. Maybe a year or three my senior,” Doc says, sitting up straight with a calm, determined expression on his face, but falters again upon meeting Jerry’s desperate look.
“Please just...try to understand what I am saying. Our ‘real purpose’ missions continue to be utter wastes of time and resources without Negan’s presence. People are beginning to consider leaving, and I am worried.”
Huffing, the scientist stood up, gathering cups around the cluttered table and bringing them to the sink, frowning at the amount of built-up dirty glasses in there from hours of monitoring that stupid club incident earlier. If they dared to do the same back in Annex, Pava would have both of their heads starting from a third used cup.
As much as he doesn't want to admit it, Bossman’s point does make sense. S.Q. has not done anything significantly productive on their own, and Doc himself had indeed noticed the displeased atmosphere around Annex lately: people came there for a well-paying job, not a sleeper agent endeavor.
“I get it,” he said, starting to wash the menacingly large tower of dishes. “Status Quo has to change priorities, it's true.”
“VendeVice was asking for our help dealing with debtors. It's not vampires this time, but still, I didn't want to accept the deal without consulting you. MERC had also put in a request for guarding their convoys, so there's an alternative,” truly, S.Q. could not have a manager better than Jerry.
“I’d say VendeVice usually pays more than MERC ever does,” Doc hummed.
“They’re really generous,” the Bossman shrugged, then looked at the scientist with unhidden relief. “...I’m glad you understood me. Can I count on your hacking expertise on the mission then?”
...Yeah, that was an issue Doc did not expect to deal with before Negan’s role came to an end. He was a researcher at heart, and Status Quo appealed to him as a unique opportunity by the Maker Itself to safely study the inner workings of the universe and monitor how Generation 01 fulfill their purpose, not as a place to get rich violently fast. He didn't particularly care for the mercenary part of Status Quo as long as it provided the cause with money and connections, but to actually subscribe to these ideals? He didn’t really plan to get involved with the assassin business long-term.
"...Unfortunately, I’m going to stay away from Annex for a while. My other job is a disaster at the moment,” luckily Doc had a reasonable excuse to opt out from S.Q.’s endeavors for now. Not even a lie, he had been neglecting his day job recently.
Jerry nodded, eyes squinting behind his glasses in understanding. “Of course, take your time, I'll get another hacker meanwhile. Just be sure to ping me wherever you're done.”
“Will do.”
Doc hoped that by the time he contacts them again, his excuse to leave for good will be a little more elaborate than “I am bored”.
***
There wasn't much of a difference between being David Mitchell, Nevada Central University’s underpaid asocial professor and Doc, the criminal organisation’s mastermind. Despite the polar opposite lifestyles, his two sides were driven by the thing in the end.
Curiosity.
He had always been interested in the way things worked: why the sun rose every day, why they had only two legs, why people die, why S-3LFs are so unexplored when they should be.
Not satisfied when his applications to Nexus Core had been declined multiple times, young David Mitchell instead joined the S-3LF research team at the Nevada Central University — not quite the same in the amount of resources provided nor the equipment’s quality, but just enough budget to get what they wanted.
Their team had worked together with Nexus research groups for nearly a decade as they unraveled the inner workings of the universe itself: Nevada, Other Place and the circulation of matter between the two, a complete cycle.
And then David found a third, unexplored plane of existence, well-hidden and not supposed to be tampered with. The Nexus teams strangely didn't want to research that phenomenon further, but the NCU were sure they hit a goldmine of an unresearched world to be studied.
They were kids playing with star reflections in the water, thinking it was space.
He didn’t mind following Maker's directions in the Status Quo mission, didn't mind being essentially an overseer so the god’s plan goes well.
The gods knew David hated them for what they did, for denying their creations freedom to make their own future, yet still permitted him to work on the project, knowing he won't manage to outsmart them again just based on his knowledge from the Status Quo operation.
“Tell me your name,” Maker’s perfect creation commands, mortal body laying prone on the surgical table in a dim room, eerie inhuman eyes staring right in his very soul. “You can't forever stay a mysterious dottore.”
“Dav—...no, wait,” David barely manages to shake off that hypnotic, hazy urge to do what the Gen01 asks of him at the very last moment, stopping halfway through his name. It feels silly, but he does not want to give that piece of personal information involuntarily.
The creation smiles innocently, just a little too wide to actually be so, solar eclipse eyes boring into him patiently. “Yes?”
“Call me....2BDamned,” It's annoying how much strength it took to say his online nickname instead.
“Mouthful,” the creation hums without much disappointment, as if expecting that answer. The young face of their vessel morphs into a grin, white teeth flashing.
“I will call you Doc then.”
He wasn’t even a doctor to earn that nickname. The project ended before he could research its purpose and mechanics fully, and so Doc had to take a break indefinitely while David Mitchell goes on with his average professor life.
***
The university’s S-3LF Programming department had been in utter chaos for the last few weeks ever since the A.A.H.W. offered the underpaid staff promising jobs, and many of David’s colleagues agreed. Not that he particularly blamed them: it was safer for a scientist to join one of the bigger factions in Nevada’s unstable environment, and while the Agency wasn't the best option to choose, it's not like other factions were much better.
Aside from David who went to hide in the university’s library from agents way too eager to get specifically him into the project, there were only two other people left to teach. The exam week was approaching. It was hell.
As he was getting ready for sleep, David had noticed the increased activity in both Agency and N51’s hacked chats, but the tiredness finally caught up to him and he simply turned all the screens off, flopping onto the bed and closing his eyes.
The rest didn’t last long.
His phone vibrated, screen lighting up in the damp bedroom climate. Squinting in the darkness, he grabbed the device to delay the alarm, and blinked, greeted with 2:46 AM and incoming call notifications rather than the expected 5:00 AM alarm.
Who rings people in the middle of the night?
As he contemplated the situation in annoyance, too sleepy to actually react in time, the call ended. The blindingly bright display turned off, leaving David in stuffy darkness.
He shrugged, reaching for the pillow to continue his dream, declining another incoming call from the same number. And another. And again, another.
The flood of calls stopped for a while, but the phone in his hand buzzed again, a short vibration rather than a long one. Heavily sighing and cursing communication technologies for being so advanced, the scientist peered at the damned device.
The screen was lit up, displaying a preview of a new message received.
“its urgent”
A new incoming call. Sighing, David accepted it.
“No.”
“Good morning to you too, Mr. Mitchell,” he swore that the deliberately nonchalant voice sounded vaguely familiar, although with how quietly the person spoke it wasn't easy to guess. “Can you spare me some time?”
“Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. I have an important question about your research.”
No introduction, just perfect.
...wait, they had a question about what.
“About my research.”
“Yes.”
“...In the middle of the night.”
“Well...it’s very important.”
David’s eye twitched in annoyance, and he forcefully exhaled, shifting into a sitting position. Despite himself, he felt just a tiny bit curious about this situation.
“Ask then, if it is that important that you felt the need to disturb my sleep.”
The caller cleared their throat, letting out a small sigh.
“In your article «Changing fundamental S-3LF data» you proposed a new way to access S-3LF entries. Did you test it?”
David hummed, mildly confused as to why they picked one of his earliest works back when just graduated college and was getting into science.
“Yes, but that was more proof of concept than a reliable way to do it. Pick a journal that’s not a decade old and you’ll see how basic my approach was. You’d be better asking Nexus Core about it. They have plenty of tested research specifically about S-3LF configuration and cloning data, all I did was vaguely speculate on all the possibilities.”
The caller clicked their tongue.
“The subject I want to talk about is not Nexus’s field at all.
You proposed a concept of rewriting already existing entries’ fundamental data instead of copying it. In this article you theorized it would allow us to bring people back to life in their original state instead of clones with inevitable data loss.”
“...Yes,” the scientist rubbed his temple and frowned. This was getting specific. “I also pretty quickly found out it’s not possible to achieve in practice if you studied far enough, literally my next work was writing just about that.”
The caller cleared their throat and exhaled, as if mentally preparing themselves.
“Well, you seemed pretty interested in this topic back then, so say...Theoretically, if I offer you an opportunity to continue that research again, would you?”
He wanted to live a little longer before horrifically dying again, no thank you.
“Who do you think you are?” he whispered, finding that his throat got too dry to speak louder. “It’s blatant suicide, what you're trying to achieve. Whatever your plan is, it is not going to work.”
The caller clicked their tongue again. “Or maybe it will. It’s the A.A.H.W. that is interested in your accomplishments.”
The A.A.H.W.
The same Agency that is solely focused on chasing just one criminal in particular and fails even at that.
...Yeah, that stupidity is definitely them.
“Any tampering with the universe's code is only possible if the Higher beings allow it to happen,” the scientist almost hissed. “There needs to be a Charter specifying exactly that, the Nexus Core has one for advanced cloning, but you, on the other hand? Where would you even get a Charter?”
“Plenty of creative freedom when your boss is a Charter themselves.”
He didn't really know who led the A.A.H.W. Last time David checked, the Agency had changed at least four equally unimpressive leaders in the past couple of months, and never bothered to remember who was the last one.
“If you tell me they're Generation 01, I'll laugh.”
“I’m not exactly sure what they are,” the caller clicked their tongue. “Everything about them is so uncertain, even the voice I can't pinpoint. It's as if they're speaking in your own thoughts.”
“Is...is your boss a Higher being?” David licked his lips.
The line fell into silence. After a short while, a tired sigh came from the other end.
“I don't know exactly what they are.”
Another uncomfortable pause.
When the agent spoke again, their politely neutral tone was gone, replaced with rather exhausted hushed whispers.
“Look, I understand how stupid that offer is. Even if you agreed to somehow continue your research in the first place, you’d be required to start this morning at one of the agency's facilities.”
“That's a lot to ask for on such a short notice.”
“Yes, yes, my thoughts exactly,” the agent huffed, sounding madly relieved. “Well, my job was to simply offer. Good night, my condolences on the agency's behalf.”
The call ended.
David sighed and threw himself back onto the pillows.
What the actual fuck was that.
He just needed to forget about the whole thing and get back to sleep. He can only give so many warnings for people to not make the same mistakes as him, but if someone is dumbass, no words will work.
David huffed, closing his eyes.
Why did they even call him when they already had a team of his colleagues.
Did the fellow scientists see what they signed up for at the last minute and refused?
The Agency was always secretive about its real goals.
Previously existing as Nexus City’s intelligence agency, the organization at one point suddenly went rogue, completely separating from Nexus Core and establishing itself as a force of justice within Nevada.
Agency Against Heinous Wrongdoers, nicely A.A.H.W for short. Known to literally everyone, including some of their own agents as “Agency Against Hank Wimbleton”. Despite proclaiming that they wished to hunt down every criminal in Nevada, in reality the whole organization focused specifically on just one, for reasons unknown.
He had his suspicions on a Generation 01 being in charge of the Agency before. After all, it and Status Quo both had a little bit in common: both organizations were built up in an inhumanly short time. But a Higher being present up and about was something unheard of before.
What it really means for the Agency is no matter what idiocy they dig themselves into, they’ll eventually succeed in what they were trying to achieve.
Even resurrecting the dead.
That was an opportunity to get into the inner coding of the universe, and the more time he spends studying its structure, the closer David will get to finding a loophole in Machine’s defenses.
A very shitty plan, but he was stuck in one place unable to progress since the Maker’s plan for him ended.
..Fuck, his curiosity is going to get him killed again. Oh well.
David picked up the phone and called the number without thinking about his decision much.
“...yes?” the same agent sounded immensely bemused on being contacted again, footsteps ringing in the background.
“I accept your offer,” he could hear the sharp inhale that came from the other side, and a rational part of him immediately regretted this decision.
***
Just as he walked outside the apartment block, an unfamiliar car with tinted windows quietly drove onto the parking lot nearby. Right on time for pick-up.
The driver door swung open, letting out a lanky figure more resembling a stereotypical librarian than a government agent, and David stopped his approach to the car in mild shock upon registering the familiar greying blond hair and steely eyes of the newcomer.
“You’re working for the Agency?”
“Yeah, well,” Ochir Kelsen, head of NCU’s Genetic Engineering department, huffed. “University pays us crap, what else to do when you've got a family to feed, no need to act so surprised.”
They haven't interacted much on a daily basis: David’s S-3LF Programming and Kelsen’s Genetic Engineering departments didn't have much in common other than cloning research. Besides strictly professional collaborations in writing articles, he didn't really interact with Kelsen outside offering his knowledge. That’s why that voice was vaguely familiar.
For someone known among students as the most well kept professor in the university, Mr. Kelsen looked the complete opposite of his reputation: the black suit not unlike the classic three-piece he was wearing at university had one sleeve completely missing; ash and splatters of blood forming misshapen patterns on usually pristine dress shirt, expensive tie dangling undone, dark glass shards sticking out of his skin. He never expected to see Kelsen with a different hairstyle other than a neatly combed side swipe, but a figurative crow nest on the head told otherwise.
“What happened to you?” David raised an eyebrow, finally coming out of his stupor.
The other man blinked at him, brushing tangled straw hair away from his face, wincing as he accidentally touched the shards embedded inside his skin.
“N51 happened.”
Shit, he really should have checked these chat logs before leaving. Seems like an eventful night to sleep through.
“I'm assuming that's related to the A.A.H.W. needing a new scientist on a short notice.”
“Well,” Kelsen limped to the passenger seat, opening the door for the scientist to enter, face struck with a complicated expression of annoyance and exasperation. “One does require new personnel when the just formed crew dies in an ambush. My condolences for your department by the way.”
David stared incredulously at the agent for a moment, getting the similarly intense look in return, yet still climbed into the car. Condolences for a newly formed crew...
“...wait, who died? The people the A.A.H.W. recruited at university?”
Kelsen nodded stonefaced, and his eyelid twitched. “Yep. Peters, Bairamov, Cornwall.”
“...What a waste,” David sighed, finding it rather hard to feel grief for the deceased colleagues beyond mild acknowledgement of ‘yeah it sucks’ that one feels when hearing about a random car accident on TV at the bar. Truthfully, he didn't know them at all — David was the only scientist to remain working at the university for more than a year, most researchers leaving for more profitable positions in many factions and laboratories around Nevada after just a month of teaching.
“Indeed. Are you really sure about your decision now?” landing into the driver seat, Kelsen began fumbling in the glove compartment. He glanced at the scientist, doubt evident in his eyes. “I haven't notified the boss yet in case that was your sleepwalking speaking.”
Maybe it still is. David frowned, rubbing his temple and collecting his thoughts. He still wanted to know the Agency’s intentions. It was absurd.
“I think I'm sure. I cannot refuse such an opportunity if that is truly what the Agency offers.”
“Oh, seriously," Kelsen shook his head, looked Doc up and down. “You want to continue your research so much?”
“Yes.”
Kelsen huffed, muttering “oh thank fuck” as he finally pulled a small tablet from the overflowing compartment. “Then let's see where I have to drive you, the destination might have changed since our conflict with N51.”
Kelsen typed something into the tablet and stared dumbfounded at the screen upon receiving an answer almost immediately. The agent mouthed ‘what’ and typed something back, then to once again stare at it in confusion after yet another answer. David tried to make out the text, but the font size was way too small even for his eyes.
“...they're not joking, are they.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Well, not exactly, just the choice of destination seems weird,” Kelsen pinched his nose bridge, collecting himself for a second and shaking his head. He reached into his pocket to pull out a slim cloth, handing it to Doc.
“Whatever, I just have to deliver you there. Cover your eyes, location's classified.”
***
Long drive without turns and a rather bumpy road — Nevada Central’s southern bridge across the river and onto the M-720 highway. Right turn onto P-216 that leads to long abandoned settlements in the middle of the state. Then a left turn, and the car starts shaking as its wheels hit uneven terrain.
Most likely they're driving somewhere around—
“Are we driving past Nerton?”
The professor driving the car coughed, surprised. “...Who knows.”
It's somewhere around Nerton then.
The car came to a stop, and the long-building nausea that David accumulated during the ride finally caught up with him. He swallowed the bile hard, wincing.
"You can take the blindfold off, we’re here.”
David obliges, and Nevada's rather recent lack of sunlight comes to his luck now, as his eyes, already used to darkness, peer into the perpetually twilight environment, taking in all the details. Truth to be told, he imagined the research facility somewhat differently, used to vast structures of the Nevada Central university, but what greets him resembles a warehouse more: two storey main building with carefully patched cracks in brick exterior surrounded by similarly rundown garages and a rusty razor wire fence — if not for the A.A.H.W. cars parked around, he would have considered it an abandoned structure.
A lone agent holding a gun exited the main building. Cautiously, he approached their car, eyeing the tinted windows suspiciously. Kelsen rolled the window down and the agent’s eyes went wide upon witnessing him. He lowered the gun, staring at him with a perplexed expression, then noticed David beside and immediately tensed again.
“...Dr. Kelsen, why are you here? You aren’t scheduled until the end of the month.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause hanging in the air for a moment too long, then Kelsen coughed before speaking.
“Well...bringing a new scientist for the Anchoring project, why would I be here on my own volition otherwise. Let us in.”
The agent tilted his head like a curious bird, whispering to himself ‘what project’. He didn’t look convinced.
“We were not notified that you were coming.”
“What?” the professor exhaled with force. “Oh come on. Tell Levkoi to check the comms every once in a while, lazy thing must be sleeping on shift, again.”
The agent shook his head, adamant. “Communication has been down since 12am. I am certain the facility's manager receives all the needed information in time, so maybe you got the wrong location? It’s definitely not here, we would know.”
“No-no, here’s the proof, look,” Kelsen sighed, pulling out the tablet he received directions from and basically shoving it into the agent’s hand. “These are the Auditor's orders I got two hours ago. The coordinates line up.”
Another uncomfortable pause, and the agent glanced at Kelsen...strangely. Worried.
“It’s an empty chat,” then, carefully picking words. “Are you feeling alright?”
Kelsen pinched his nose bridge tiredly, studying the screen as well with an unreadable expression. His eye twitched.
“What...there was a chat.”
“However there isn't one now,” the agent stated once again.
“I can attest there was a chat before,” David finally spoke from the passenger seat, sitting straight and sternly looking at the agent. He didn't want to participate in the conversation initially, but the looming possibility of being sent back to Nevada Central didn't excite him.
“And why would I trust you,” the agent squinted at him suspiciously. “I have no reason to take your claims seriously with lack of evidence to back them up.”
“However you should still ask your superior to see if new orders came by, in case they simply forgot to inform you,” David mused.
“I am the facility manager’s assistant, most of the information we get goes through me,” the agent bristled. “...oh fine, I will check, wait here.”
Kelsen sighed, rolled the window back up and turned to face David. He tried to fix his hair without thinking, but winced again upon touching his cut face.
“I swear, these people... I'm overseeing the clone batches here monthly, and every time there's some kind of problem.”
“Speaking of, are you really alright?” David touched his own face, mirroring the embedded glass shards. “You really should be at the hospital.”
“Mostly superficial damage, I'll live. Wanted to quickly drop you off and go get checked just in case but alas, these G04 morons take a long time before organizing...”
“Being honest, I see no reason why you should be present in this debate, to be honest. We're all grown people, and I'm sure my presence alone will be enough to resolve that situation. Drive to the hospital, I'll deal with it,” even with Kelsen’s relative authority in the Agency, his current appearance and claims did not paint a very reliable picture to the agents. Even as a complete outsider, David felt he would be taken more seriously if he was completely alone, not as a background to a very shell-shocked looking person. He opened the door and stepped out, noting the lack of protest from the professor. The latter looked at him wistfully, then smirked.
“Well, good luck then. At the very least I think killing you would provide too much paperwork even for these idiots,” Kelsen huffed in mild amusement. “Goodbye, Mr. Mitchell.”
The agent in the distance spun around as he heard the sound of a door closing, running towards David.
“I said to wait in the car—”
Said car suddenly drove backwards and onto the main road leading away from the area. The agent started to run towards it, but it sped up, driving off into the distance before he could even reach it. David cleared his throat, catching the annoyed man’s attention.
“Mr. Kelsen isn't feeling really well, so he left.”
“...Yeah, I can clearly see that,” the agent muttered. He crossed his arms, glaring at the scientist with the same intensity as a perfectionist housekeeper looks at a cockroach, — and to him David probably was not unlike a pest in his schedule. Despite the recent breakthroughs in simulating natural genetic diversity in Generation 04, there was something about freshly released batches that betrayed their origin, a naive, childishly open way they displayed their emotions, looking a little too young for their physical age.
The agent exhaled, eyes darting between the building and David, somewhat deflating as he was seemingly thinking what action to take.
“So, uh...”
“I’ll go with you,” David said peremptorily.
He received a bemused stare in return, then the agent sighed, closed his eyes and muttered ‘fine’, beckoning David to follow. As they entered the building, things slightly improved from the exterior’s dilapidated state: the inside of the facility was stubbornly scrubbed clean despite the building’s age, walls painted a monotone gray, no mold spots on the ceiling. The halls were empty, their steps the only sound ringing around them.
The agent leading him stopped in front of an unmarked door at the very end of the corridor, looked himself up and down, sighed and hurriedly tucked in his shirt that rode up. He gave a suspicious look at David, then shook his head and knocked.
“Sir, we have an unexpected visitor demanding to talk to you.”
Behind the door someone loudly yawned, then there came sounds of paper being stacked and keyboard clicking. A dispassionate voice spoke. “Come in.”
The first thing he noticed upon entering was the big desk dimly illuminated by a lamp in the middle of the room, tall paper stacks cluttering its surface. An empty cup stood on one of the folders, dangerously tilting to the side. The air inside was stuffy, smelling like dust and something that vaguely reminded Doc of ladybug stink.
Someone shifted in the shadows behind the desk, a disheveled person emerging from the darkness that Doc belatedly registered as an ATP officer solely by the faint yellow glow of half-lidded eyes. He nodded in greeting, getting a reluctant head tilt in return.
For a higher-up, the engineer appeared uncharacteristically messy: surely the suit shouldn't have sweat stains that noticeable at first glance, not even mentioning that almost all of her hair fell out of once neat bun and now rested flat on shoulders. The engineer slowly stretched in her seat, neck popping with an obnoxiously loud crack, keeping eye contact with him the entire way. She brought her hand to her face, rubbing her eyes framed with dark circles and blinking again, seemingly having a hard time focusing on objects. The icteric shade of her skin combined with an unkempt look would have formed an impression of end-stage liver failure, but for an ATP personnel she was fine, just extremely exhausted.
“Uh,” the engineer finally said when she finished examining David, turning to look at the agent standing beside doing his best impression of a plastic fern. She slowly blinked, reached to pinch her arm then stared at the scientist again, more awake this time, although not cautious enough. “Oh, you’re real.”
He pursed his lips, stifling the urge to laugh at the sheer mundanity of the interaction with a presumably trained officer who should have theoretically acted more hostile to strangers.
“Greetings, my name is David Mitchell, researcher of Nevada Central University. I was brought to work at your facility, presumably on the...what was it, Anchoring project?”
“...no,” a subtle beep followed by a short fuzz of radio static from the manager’s direction, although she didn’t move at all. The engineer gave him a thoroughly confused look, then glanced at the agent again, who shrugged. “I’m sorry, Dr. Mit—”
“Mr. Mitchell. I haven't got a doctoral degree.”
“Mr. Mitchell then,” an odd look in his direction. ”I see you're not listed in the project. I don't even know when you were recruited.”
David crossed his arms, looking straight into the yellow eyes.
“I’m under the assumption your boss’s plans changed rapidly over the course of the night, as I was invited to work in A.A.H.W. three hours ago.”
“And what, you agreed immediately?” the engineer squinted at him suspiciously, then sighed. “Blair, who brought him in?”
The agent beside David straightened, cleaned his throat. “Dr. Kelsen, sir. Claimed he received instructions from the Auditor to deliver the scientist here, showed me an empty tablet as proof and drove off. I brought the scientist to you to clear things up.”
“Dr. Kelsen,” the ATP officer shook her head, surprised. “Received instructions from the Auditor. And I didn't, which is odd. Why did you let him leave?”
“Didn’t react fast enough,” Blair said, keeping a neutral expression even as his ears turned pink. The engineer gave him an unamused look, getting ready to say something, but glanced at David and huffed, waving her hand. She picked up one of the folders from her desk, skimming through the pages.
“There’s no way the Anchoring project was relocated here, we don’t have enough space for our current task to begin with...I also don’t know what to do with you, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Can’t you ask your boss when comms are back online?” David offered, raising an eyebrow. “I can wait.”
“...technically,” the ATP officer winced and turned to look at the monitor on her table, deep in thought. She took a shuddering breath and pulled the chair closer to the desk, looking really unwilling to proceed. “I can ask the Auditor.”
David furrowed eyebrows. “Weren’t the A.A.H.W.'s comms down?”
The agent and the engineer exchanged hesitant glances, although Blair didn’t seem to understand the sudden anxiousness of his manager, licking his lips to respond.
“Uh...They still are. Sir, how are you going—?”
The ATP officer resembled a hospice patient with hepatitis even more now, face pale as she began typing silently, both David and the agent watching her. He watched the placement of her fingers on the keyboard: the keys weren’t labelled, but David could guess what was being written by the layout if he could recognise it.
‘Intruder here. Claims he’s a scientist for the Anchoring project. David Mitchell’. Ah, so no unique keyboard layout in the Agency’s tech.
The screen didn’t show the text being typed, cursor blinking at the start of the line, unmoving. Then it suddenly disappeared, replaced by a string of letters once again too small for David to actually differentiate, and the engineer blankly stared at it, turning to look at the scientist for a moment, then back at the screen.
‘Are you stupid,’ her fingers stop, analyzing a different text that appeared. ‘No, we cannot house a project here.’
That was an incredibly unprofessional way to communicate with one’s boss, much less a Higher Being.
Another response, and the engineer jerked away as if the keyboard burned her, letting out a protesting strangled sound. “N—”
David focused on the screen trying to make out a new set of words that showed up, but the agent standing beside him suddenly let out a choked noise and his body went limp, seemingly standing upright just because he was leaning on the wall beforehand. The engineer looked at him with way too much caution, slowly standing up. His head lolled down, hands uncrossing and falling, legs slightly bending. David reached out to catch the agent who began sliding down the wall dangerously fast, as if folding on himself, but just as he tried to grab it, the agent straightened up inhumanly fast, headbutting him in the process.
“Careful,” the ATP engineer’s cold hand wrapped around David’s wrist and dragged him backwards a few steps. She looked very tense, worriedly watching the agent maintain his balance, although something in his demeanor seemed...off.
The agent raised his head, and looked straight into David’s eyes, and oh, that wasn’t the agent at all.
The pupils were blown wide, one slightly larger than the other, staring directly at him with such intensity that he was somewhat afraid he’d catch fire. The agent’s face was contorted in a pained, twisted expression, every muscle stiffened at the peak of its flexibility, yet it felt unnaturally still like a theatre mask, not really belonging to the scene. Jerking mechanically, the head tilted to the left, then to the right, slightly up then down, just like a child gently testing how their remote control toy works. The body stayed completely still like a wax figure, it was only the head that moved: the chest didn’t rise and fall even a little bit, not even the nostrils flared taking a breath. The body didn’t even blink, gazing at him without breaking eye contact.
He has seen something like this before, that inhumanness, otherworldliness made flesh. Only that the Maker at very least made an effort to make Its own body. Not outright possess a person like that. The agent’s body spoke, a truly emotionless voice, not the tired tone of the engineer, but simply lacking any intonation to begin with. Just the mechanical vibration of vocal chords, tongue and lower jaw movement.
The Auditor wanted to greet him in person.
He could only breathe, swallowing as he stared at the reddening unmoving eyes, tears starting to pool near their corners. Just behind him, he heard a shuddering exhale, and the engineer moved forward, gesticulating at the possessed agent.
“Stop this nonsense. Kitezh wasn’t prepared to host the project, not that it even could: our capacities simply can’t allow that much power needed for it. It’s our most important project, I agree, so why not move it to the facility that meets its requirements?”
“Other facilities are at risk since N51 hacked our syst—...,” the agent’s voice gradually quieted down before abruptly ending without finishing the word. His lips were getting blue.
“Breathe. Let the air through the nose and into the lungs,” the engineer blankly said, looking at the cyanotic face. “Then let it out.”
Silently the Auditor obeyed, but did it only once and immediately proceeded to speak once it got the oxygen required for talking. “—systems, I believe Kitezh is the safest location to host the project in. We are not to announce the Anchoring project in our inner logs, no one should even know we’re doing it.”
“No—”
“The small cloning facility like yours will not interest N51, too insignificant to care about,” another sharp inhale, the tears now freely flowing down the agent’s face. “I made my decision, so obey it. All the necessary equipment will be provided in a short time to Mr. Mitchell to begin immediately. ”
Desperate, the engineer turned to look at David, then back at the possessed body. She spread her hands, trying to find something to say.
“...why didn’t you at least warn me? I don’t even have a spare room to house him right now.”
“I forgot,” the Auditor shrugged.
The agent’s eyes finally closed, and once again he went limp, this time fully falling down. David looked at the prone body, then it wheezed, coming back to life, so he sat, helping the agent get up. Sniffing, Blair kneeled on the floor, raising his hand to wipe his face from the amount of tears that pooled. He coughed, shakily getting up: he looked at David in pure terror mixed with confusion. David was pretty sure he looked back with the same emotions.
“Anyway,” the same emotionless voice spoke, albeit with the ATP engineer’s vocal chords. David sharply spun around, meeting the same intense unblinking stare once again. The ATP officer was standing frozen, half bent, never finishing the motion.
“This one doesn’t need to breathe, interesting. Welcome to the Agency, Mr. Mitchell. I have wanted to meet you for a long time.”
David cleared his throat, finding that it got too dry.
“You-...you’re the Auditor. Nice to meet you.”
Blair let out a choked sound, scrambling to stand up, so David straightened before the thing as well.
The engineer’s mouth widened in a crooked, bad imitation of a smile.
“I’m excited to work with a person like you. You will do great things for Nevada.”
“I will. Now tell me more about the Anchoring project,” not that he enjoyed their presence or the unorthodox way they were communicating with him, but to once again have a Higher Being helping him (using him, really) was intoxicating. For the first time in two years, David felt alive again.